


Resonance

by yuutsuhime



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, High School, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Post-Break Up, Slice of Life, 物の哀れ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25062139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuutsuhime/pseuds/yuutsuhime
Summary: A collection of snapshots from the lives of two mismatched badminton partners.
Relationships: Hirano Tadashi & Jordan Lutz-Whatley
Kudos: 1





	Resonance

**Author's Note:**

> These are five out of fourteen journals I submitted for a college writing class. Written over the course of the fall semester, 2015.
> 
> In hindsight the duality between these characters represent myself: being biracial, and trans (and a lesbian, and in some sort of weird longing/denial about it all). I didn't figure any of this stuff out for about 2 years.
> 
> In later writing, Jordan and Tadashi's characters merged to create [Haruhara Jaya](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Haruhara%20Jaya/works), a longstanding character who grew with me throughout transition.

### 1.

"Jordan, you look like shit," says Em. We're in World Geo second period, with Ms. Yang, the authoritarian. Em is a communist but even she'd admit this teacher was going a bit overboard; what, with the automatic failures if you fail two quizzes (you could otherwise get an 82%), etcetera. Basically the worst class to cry in.

"I just broke up with her," I say, sitting down a little bit too fast. That's kind of a lie, but what the hell, right?

"What?" says Em, flicking her hair in disbelief. "But I never even saw—"

"I know," I say. "She never talked to me about it. Apparently we were just friends with benefits or something. God, I have no idea how to have a relationship."

"Wanna know something?" says Em, chewing deliberately on her school breakfast (is it egg? cheese? who knows?).

"Sure," I say.

"I'm sorry about this. But she was a piece of shit."

"I—"

"She was a piece of shit, J. Like holy crap, she dated Sam for like, what, nine months? And then just up and left him, and a month later, _boom_. With you."

"So you're saying I should have seen it coming?"

"Goddamn it J, you know what I mean. She's not worth it," Em smiles. "Gimme her phone number, I'll rip her a new one."

"No, Em, I just—" I say, and my voice cracks. At least only a few people are here, but still.

"Hey," Em says. "Come here. We'll go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up, right?"

I catch my breath. "No," I say. "I'm fine."

### 2.

The last I heard, she went off to Tokyo to join the orchestra. With ten million people all in the same city, I'd never see her again from sheer force of probability, even if I stayed in town. Still, the sound of her voice echoed in the places we had gone. I'm forced to see everything—the place I lived—through a filter of nostalgia.

The train station is shiny as ever, filled with suited businessmen and uniformed students moving quickly due to the weight of their stress. I don't even notice how similarly they dress, because every face is unique. You notice a lot more of a person's demeanor when they dress to blend in. How they laugh, or make exaggerated facial expressions. Instead of fashion, they use body language and words.

She liked to play the flute, but I could never find the right words to encourage her to show her skills off. She was always shy, and tried to blend in even more than most people. That's part of why everyone noticed her and then picked on her for being weird: for liking the wrong type of music, for her hopelessly bad sense of pop culture. The way she tried or didn't try to do her hair. When new people talked to her, she would always look at the floor, never making eye contact.

We always got off at the same train stop. It's called _Jidoshagakko-mae_ , the station in front of the local driving school, which has existed since the 1970s without ever being updated. The train platforms don't have guard rails, and it's open to the weather entirely, except for a dusty, cobwebbed shack with the ticket machines. I used to bring 100 yen every day, to buy myself tea after a long day of studying, and sometimes she would be there. I could not look her in the face either, because we were both shy, but I bought the tea and sat down on the other bench while we waited for out parents.

On one day, I forgot my 100 yen on purpose, hoping that she would be there and I could ask to borrow some money instead. On that day, I stood at the exit of the train—the best spot, since nobody else would bump you when it was crowded, as it was. It was so crowded inside that I could not tell if she was there, too. When we got off the train, I dropped my ticket on the ground when I tried to show it to the conductor. I was so nervous, my legs started shaking when I saw her walk out from a different train car.

Three years later, the station itself is identical. The advertisements in the train have become modern—about television and new stores that have appeared—and now there are plaques warning commuters not to use their cell phones inside of the train. One of the advertisements caught my attention as I walked out onto the stop. There was an orchestra concert in town. I caught myself off balance, but it was impossible to walk back into the train because everybody else was leaving. I just gave my ticket to the conductor, and waited on the platform until the train left, thinking. I could have sworn her image was on the advertisement.

Not that I see her a lot these days. It used to be that her image was burned into my brain, and would reappear in dreams to taunt me. For some reason, she always begged me to come back, even though it was her who had decided to stop our relationship. I always told her no. Now, I barely think about her at all, and when I do, the memories are happy and matter-of-fact. Even so, the advertisement caught me off-guard. Somehow it was both obvious and surprising that she still existed somewhere in this sea of people. Perhaps the face wasn't even hers—I had barely registered it anyways.

Standing on the platform, I enjoy the cool night breeze, and the sound of automobiles and bicyclists moving in the distance. Some high-school kids are hanging out in the bike storage, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Even though I feel exhausted, I stop inside the shack by the station and buy a tea from the vending machine. The taste is still familiar, and I smile. Perhaps it's a smile of sadness, relief, or just understanding. I don't know. It just felt right.

### 3.

There's a park out in front of the school that I always walked through. Nobody ever cared much for it—it got mowed, same as the rest of the schoolyard—but nobody every stopped to weed it or sit down in the grass. I've always had this nervous habit of fiddling with objects when I'm bored, and whenever I lay down in the park I pick blades of grass and just twirl them around.

Mom's always late picking me up. It's not really her fault—she's been overworked and Dad's still in the hospital. He's 58 and having back surgery, which is something I can't tell anyone else in high school because he's awkwardly old. Most people's grandpas are that old.

"Sorry, Jordan," Mom says when she pulls up. It's about fifty degrees out, but she looks sweaty, as though she ran here instead of just driving the car.

It's always 'Sorry, Jordan', and the worst part is, I actually get it. I'm gonna graduate in a few months. Move out. Maybe see Dad die.

"It's okay," I say. Passive, I know, but it's the truth.

We always used to have picnics together as a family. That's how I learned to fiddle with stuff on the ground—Dad did that all the time, and Mom would always complain about him getting poisonous plant juice on his hands and in the food. Then creeping charlie and ants took over out back yard, and so we got it filled with wood chips.

Mom's driving carefully, scoffing at all the sports players leaving the school in their groups. The kind of kids who bring their Varsity jackets to college so they can drink and join Greek life. Normal people, I guess.

"So how was school," Mom asks.

"It was good," I say. The same thing we've said every day since kindergarten. I don't really know if I'll miss it or not. Maybe I'll just remember it.

We drive for a bit more, down past the old brick buildings from 1910 and past the shipyard by the river.

"Mom?" I ask.

"Dad's surgery isn't for another few hours," she says on autopilot.

I look down.

"Is it—" I start.

"He'll be fine," says Mom. "It's just routine."

"I know," I say, and return to looking out the window.

### 4.

"So which part of China are you from, Tadashi?" the grandpa asked me, chewing mashed potatoes with his mouth open.

In Japan it's not polite to chew with your mouth open, so I delay my response. Actually it's not polite anywhere, but the grandpa always expresses self-righteousness when it comes to home ownership: 'this is my house, I can do what I want'. He is also old, so he tends to forget he's in his daughter's house.

"Oh, Tadashi's from Japan," says Belle, one of my host mothers. She likes to speak in a calm, airy voice around her dad (the grandpa), because he tends to bring up her homosexuality whenever he gets irritated. Belle has been married to Juniper for over five years, which the grandpa never fails to mention.

"Oh, I've been to Japan," says the grandpa. "Got stationed there right was the war was ending. Beautiful culture, though. Have you trained in the art of the sam-yoo-rai?"

"In fact, I have," I said. "In my cooking class, I am the fastest at chopping vegetables."

"Of course you are," said the grandpa. "You people are all ninjas."

He's actually wrong about that, because if I was actually a ninja I would have sneaked away long ago. At the same time, Belle's cooking is known to be legendary. She's the kind of person who bakes pies and leaves them on the windowsill to cool, while she practices fencing in the back yard. She needs to practice fencing because otherwise the neighbors will come over and abscond with the cooking.

"This is Tadashi's first Christmas," says Juniper. None of her family could make it to our meal. More accurately, she was not invited by her own family.

I wanted to put my family on conference call to Japan, but they had to go to sleep because my sister had school. I usually wake up early so we can watch American television together. I don't understand why in America, the friends I make insist on watching Japanese anime all the time. Interesting that we would worship each others' shows.

The grandpa mutters something through a mouthful of food. I suppose he could be characterized as sloppy because of his table manners, but I've gone golfing with him before and he's obviously capable of caring for his clubs. In addition, after his wife died he purchased a Toyota Prius, and he records his mileage on post-it notes stuck neatly on the dashboard. This is so that he can brag to Belle on their next phone call.

"Hey Dad," says Belle. "Pass the sweet potatoes?"

"Sure thing. Here, Tadashi," he says, passing me the heavy bowl. "Oh and one more thing - welcome to our family, eh?"

### 5.

We were sitting in the dining hall, watching the news. It was Jordan and I. I didn't expect her to react to anything with something other than sarcasm, but she was pretty shaken, as though the events in Paris had connected to something about herself that she hadn't shared with us.

I liked Jordan because she was the only person at college who didn't automatically ask me where I was from, and when I said Japan she still refrained from making excessive comments about our culture's apparent obsession with anime and manga. She dyes her hair purple like an anime character, however, which is her way of broadcasting her homosexuality.

Jordan studied mathematics and yelled at matrices when they turned out to have defective eigenvalues. We had become friends in high school when I played badminton. Apparently American high schools believe that badminton is a dainty sport for women, because I was unable to join a men's team, but the women's team always held tournaments. Most of the time I was able to beat the opponent, because it was a skilled player trying to play on the same team as an unskilled romantic partner.

Jordan was the assistant captain of the woman's team. The actual captain was, as expected, of Hmong origin, but Jordan was the highest-ranked white person on any team in the entire district. As it turned out, our mutual interest in sports and mathematics drew us together to form a single powerful team, and together with my Japanese origin we crushed everyone and went out for sushi with the prize money.

"Why is everything so fucked up, Tadashi," Jordan asked me. "Everything's turning to shit."

I didn't have anything to add, so I stuffed my face with another bite of fish. It is impolite to speak while chewing anyways, and the food they prepare is delicious.

"What are we even supposed to do?" Jordan said.

I looked back up at the television.

"Fucking politicians," Jordan said.

We stare at our food, and then I get up and come back with an ice cream cone. Jordan looks at it, and I've known her long enough to read the inside of her thoughts. A minute later she has one too.

When I leave her dorm, the night air is cool. Normally my mother always warns me about getting mugged by people camouflaged in the dark, but I feel safe enough to go alone.


End file.
